


Something Less Ordinary

by evocates



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:23:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The first time Gokudera met him, it was in March.” AU. Gokudera Hayato – Italian Mafioso. Yamamoto Takeshi – Japanese sushi chef. Some things, perhaps, were meant to happen. And some things just weren’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Less Ordinary

**Author's Note:**

> For pollinia@LJ and theburningempty@LJ.

The first time Gokudera met him, it was in March. The spring winds had just finished chasing the winter’s chill away, leaving behind fields clean of snow. Flowers and leaves were starting to cover the bare branches of the trees and bushes again.

But Gokudera didn’t notice any of this; he had never been one who was able to appreciate Nature’s beauty. Beauty, to him, simply was the way fire covered a bare hand yet did not burn; the smoke and debris left behind by an explosion; the bits of pieces of a body blown apart by a tiny stick of dynamite a fraction its size. These were the things that took one’s breath away (and in some cases, literally so).

He didn’t know why he first walked into the restaurant, but he did anyway. Perhaps it was the emblazoned name of _Takesushi_ on the cloth hanging over the doorway; perhaps it was the soft murmurs and laughter he could hear (it wouldn’t hurt to familiarize himself with the locals, to give himself a better cover); perhaps it was the brightness of the sun that shone into his eyes and blinded him.

Nevertheless, he lifted the cloth easily, hearing a soft bell chime, announcing his arrival.

“Welcome!” someone said. Someone with messy brown hair and stood so tall that Gokudera had to blink and wonder if he had accidentally stepped on a plane back home. The man was smiling, wide and refreshing.

The knife in his hand caught the sunlight streaming in through the open doorway. Gokudera blinked again, freezing mid-motion in an effort not to reach for his gun, hidden inside his suit jacket.

“Please take a seat,” the man holding the knife said, waving a hand towards the shop itself – which had only three tables available. Gokudera’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the room. There was an exit at the back, and the only place with clear, unblocked route to both of the exits in the room was right in front of the chef.

Walking forward, he dropped himself onto it, fishing a cigarette and lighter out of his pocket. He glanced towards the other man (a form of courtesy; he was, after all, not in Italy) but the chef only smiled and turned back to the fish.

Gokudera took it as permission and lit up, taking a long drag of the cigarette and relishing in the slow, familiar burn at the back of his throat.

“You’re new in town, aren’t you?” the chef said, the wide, slightly idiotic grin still on his face. Gokudera almost started at the question, but managed to control himself just in time to simply look away, staring out to the small groups of people sitting at their tables, eating and it was so quiet that there was almost complete silence.

An ashtray was pushed towards him; he tapped the cigarette at the edge, looking back to look the chef in the eye, nodding, “Yea.”

Then he noticed the plate of deep red fish slices sitting at his elbow.

“Try it,” the chef offered helpfully, waving towards the fish. “It’s not tuna belly, but the catch today is pretty good!” His grin was wide and hopeful. “You haven’t eaten sushi before, right? This one’s on the house.”

Gokudera opened his mouth, about to ask questions like _how the hell do you know_ and _who the fuck told you about me_ and, most importantly, _who the hell are you_. Because if this man did know who Gokudera was, then he would have to kill him right there and then, wouldn’t he? He couldn’t risk it.

But all the chef was doing was looking at him with those hopeful eyes and wide, guileless smile. Gokudera shrugged and picked up the pair of chopsticks the chef held out to him. He was immune to at least fifty-three types of poisons, in any case, if this man was really trying to kill him.

He popped a piece into his mouth. It tasted like raw fish. He chewed, and then swallowed. “It’s good,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Really? Haha, I’m happy to hear that!” the man was grinning like a fool again. “So do you like it?”

Gokudera took another piece and chewed on it. Swallowed.

“Good!” he said as if Gokudera had given an answer. The silver-haired man ignored him, concentrating on the food. But he didn’t seem to mind, continuing the chatter all by himself.

“You came at such a nice time! It’s nearly spring; all the sakura trees are blooming,” the silver of his knife caught the light again, drawing Gokudera’s eyes towards it. “There are a lot of sakura trees in this town, haha.”

He paused.

“Hey,” the chef said, looking up.” What’s your name?”

Gokudera paused for a long moment before shrugging, grinding his half-burnt cigarette against the grey ceramic of the ashtray, snuffing out the flame.

“It’s Gokudera.” His mother’s name, taken and adopted as his own after he ran away from his father’s home. It was as good an answer as any.

“Gokudera? Haha, that’s an interesting name!” His knife sliced through the fish with quick, clean efficiency, the blade held slanted. With every flick and move of the wrist, the knife cut through the meat as if there was no resistance at all.

It reminded Gokudera of another blade, much longer and wider and wielded by another hand. He remembered the wide arc of the blood as it splashed into the air from a fatal slice to the neck; remembered that loud, rough voice; remembered the vicious grin, teeth bared and lips draw back like a feral beast.

“My name is Yamamoto. Yamamoto Takeshi,” and this man’s smile was friendly and bright as he flicked _(the blood from the sword)_ the water from the knife.

***

Gokudera didn’t know why he was here again

The skies were slowly darkening out; nearing evening, still too early for dinner time. As he lifted the cloth at the entrance and heard the chime of the bell at his ears, Gokudera told himself that he was here for the food, but he had always been terrible at trying to deceive himself.

(What the hell was the use of trying when you already knew it was a lie anyway? It was far easier to save the effort. Besides, just because you knew didn’t mean you were going to do anything about it.)

He walked over to the same seat that he had sat at before. And like the last time, he lit up a cigarette again, the sizzling sound of fire burning paper and tobacco resounding throughout the room and announcing his presence better than any bell could.

An ashtray was pushed into his line of vision. Gokudera blinked, and turned his head.

Yamamoto’s smile was a lot warmer and less bright than the last time. “Hey, Gokudera. Welcome back!”

“Ch’,” Gokudera said, giving him a loose shrug for that greeting. “I want more of that fish you gave me the last time,” he demanded.

“Oh, that tuna!” Yamamoto said, and the name of the fish rolled off his tongue smooth and familiar and almost affectionate, _maguro_. “Sure, haha! You like it a lot, huh?”

“It’s okay,” Gokudera looked away and took a drag of his cigarette.

(It was the best raw fish he had ever eaten. Which didn’t say a lot, really, considering that he preferred his food cooked. Prometheus had suffered for centuries to give human beings fire, and what did the Japanese do?

Ignore its existence and eat _raw fish_.

Where was the fucking logic in that?)

But he didn’t say that, of course. All he did was to blow out a cloud of bluish smoke, leaning back against the counter. The shop was empty, for now. Then, as if Gokudera’s thoughts had jinxed it, the bell chimed bright and clear in the shop, announcing the entrance of more customers. Gokudera’s head jerked up, eyes narrowing immediately as his hands clenched at his side instinctively.

But those who walked in made him relax marginally again – ordinary civilians, as far as he could see. A man with short-cropped white hair and bandaged hands like a boxer; a woman with a sweet face and large eyes and long auburn hair; and another man with black spiky hair, nothing extraordinary about him at all.

“Ah, welcome!” Yamamoto called from behind, and Gokudera made sure to not start. He was rather successful. “Thank you for coming again, Sasagawa-senpai, Mochida-senpai, and Sasagawa-san!”

“Yo, Yamamoto!” the white-haired one raised a hand and waved vigorously as if Yamamoto was a mile away instead of a few metres. Auburn-haired ducked her head down just in time to avoid being brained against a pillar, smiling as if she was used to all of this. “We’ll have the usual, then!”

Black-haired-and-ordinary wrapped an arm around auburn-haired’s shoulders, pulling her so close that he was nearly squashing her against his chest. Auburn-haired smiled, a little strained. “Hey, Yamamoto. Soon you’ll have to call her _Mochida_ -san instead, eh?”

“Haha, sure!” Yamamoto said, and Gokudera was immediately distracted by that table and its occupants, by Yamamoto’s hands, by his fingers pressed flat against the silver blade of his knife as he dragged it along the flat grey stone again and again, sharpening it. “The wedding’s coming up soon, right?”

“Yea!” White-haired’s voice was a little too loud and cheerful, resounding around the small shop, but Gokudera did not turn around. Yamamoto was cutting the fish again, at a much faster speed than the last time he saw him do it. He wielded the knife with such proficiency, cutting and slicing and slashing that Gokudera wandered, for a moment, if he knew how to kill someone with it.

In less time than Gokudera had to blink and clear his head of the image of Yamamoto covered in blood, sushi knife at his side slick with red, the chef already had the fish placed on top of the shaped rice and the plates set out perfectly. He ducked down behind the counter, and Gokudera watched as he set out porcelain bottles and cups with a care and near-reverence that made him curious.

The odour of alcohol filled the air, mixing with the ever-present scent of green tea and the sharp, clean smell of fresh fish.

“Oy,” Gokudera said when Gokudera moved back to his seat behind the counter. “Give me a bottle of sake.” He waved towards the group (white-haired and black-haired seemed to be having an enthusiastic, utterly incoherent debate that auburn-haired was giggling over). “Is there anything you have that is stronger than what you just gave them?”

Yamamoto blinked, “Huh?” He tilted his head to the side and Gokudera could almost literally see the gears shifting in his head. “Oh! Yea, I do,” he smiled, about to reach down to get it when he blinked.

“You don’t like the tea?”

Gokudera turned to look at the cup of green tea that had sat steaming at his elbow since he came into the shop. He made a face at it.

Yamamoto threw his head back and laughed like a child, eyes sparkling with humour. Gokudera looked at him, surprised and completely taken aback because he had never seen a man laughed like this before. Laughed like he was free. (Freedom had always been relative, in his world.) He could only watch Yamamoto laugh, his hand placed on the countertop and the knuckles slowly turning white.

“Hahaha, you’re so funny, Gokudera!”

A breath and Gokudera relaxed, a scowl coming easily to his features as he growled, “Quiet.”

Yamamoto shut up immediately, but the smile still remained on his lips. There was a considering, too-wise look in his eyes that made Gokudera blink, suddenly taken-aback.

“What the hell are you looking at,” he snapped, suddenly all prickly.

“Nothing, nothing!” Yamamoto held up his hands as if in surrender. But he was still smiling widely as he got out more bottles and cups for Gokudera, setting them in front of him and popping the corks off. Gokudera picked up a bottle and ignored the tiny little cup, lifting it to his lips and downing a mouthful.

It burnt something hot and delightful down his throat. He nearly missed hearing the bell chime again. He blinked, turning his head.

A man walked into the shop. He would have been tall if he stood up straight, but his posture was hunched, shoulders drawn in as if trying to hide and making himself as small as possible. His wild brown hair was the most striking part of him – one couldn’t see his eyes, with the way he was staring at the floor as he dragged his feet towards the counter and sat down on one of the seats.

“Hey Sawada,” Yamamoto greeted softly. His eyes flickered over to the auburn-haired for a moment. “Do you want the usual?”

“Yea,” the man said, and his voice was small and soft, as if he was afraid to speak out too loudly and be noticed. “Thanks, Yamamoto.”

Yamamoto whirled around, “Hey Gokudera, is the sake-”

The seat was empty. Steam from the cup of green tea rose towards the ceiling – the only movement in that seat. A pile of bills sat beside it, the overturned sake cup acting as a paperweight.

The bell chimed again.

***

The third time Gokudera came into the shop, it was early morning. Yamamoto had just unlocked the doors and was just setting out the tables and chairs when he heard the bell peal. He turned around, ready with a smile and his customary line.

 _Sorry, but we aren’t open yet. Do you mind coming back later?_

But Gokudera’s silhouette was all that he saw; silver hair brushing against his customary suit. (Had he ever worn anything else?) His hand was raised to lift the cloth bearing the _Takesushi_ name out of the way, and his mouth was half-opened as if he was thinking of saying something before he closed it with an audible snap and spun on his heel, making to walk away.

Yamamoto’s words died in his throat, but his smile grew even wider at the sight of the other man. He waved a hand, inviting him in, “Hey, Gokudera.” He grinned. “Welcome back! Take a seat first, okay? I’m almost done.”

“Yea, okay,” Gokudera nodded sharply and turned back to face the inside of the shop, walking towards his usual seat again. Yamamoto smiled and finished up with the chairs, going over to the counter again.

“You’re here really early,” he commented, filling up a kettle with water and putting it to boil. “Most people only come at around 11 or so, haha!”

“Shut up,” Gokudera said immediately, withdrawing another cigarette from its box (a new pack, Yamamoto noted, unsurprised). “Hey, do you have any more of that sake from the last time? “

Yamamoto nodded, smiling as he brought out the very bottle that Gokudera had left unfinished during his last visit, “You like it a lot, huh?”

Gokudera scowled like he thought Yamamoto was an idiot. It was a familiar expression to Yamamoto by now, so he simply shrugged it off. His grin did not fade or dim in any sense. But Gokudera just ignored him and downed the rest of the bottle in one gulp.

Silence reigned in the room for a long while as Gokudera smoked and Yamamoto continued to pack up. It was broken periodically by the sounds of porcelain clinking against each other; of metal against wood; of wood against ceramic; assorted little noises that signalled Yamamoto’s movements behind the counter.

Gokudera took a long drag of the cigarette in his hand, and then lit another from the embers of the first.

“Hey,” Yamamoto started, head tilted to the side and tone casual. “Why did you leave so fast the last time?” There was something serious in his eyes and in his voice when he asked the question, but he laughed it off quickly enough. “Haha, I didn’t even have time to give you your change!”

“Keep it,” Gokudera said, cutting him off mid-‘haha’. “I had an urgent appointment I had nearly forgotten about.” He stubbed out the cigarette, eyes fixed on the ashtray.

“It’s not your business. Stop being so nosy.”

Yamamoto blinked at the suddenly caustic words, but he smiled anyway, nodding, “Alright. I won’t ask.”

“Good,” the word came out as a snap, and Gokudera’s brows were creased and lips pressed into a thin line.

Silence descended upon them again, tense and uncomfortable. Yamamoto poured the tea and put it by Gokudera’s elbow.

“This shop,” Gokudera’s voice was like a crack of thunder when he spoke, breaking the silence. “You own it, right?”

“Mm?” Yamamoto looked up, his eyes moving to gaze upon the signboard hanging on the front of the shop. _Takesushi_ , it said. “I do. It used to belong to my dad, though.”

Gokudera blinked, and then looked away as he lit up another cigarette. The crackle of burning paper and the smoke filled the space between them.

“What’s he like?” Gokudera asked, as if for the sake of talking so the silence wouldn’t return.

“He,” Yamamoto began, and then he laughed a little, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. “He, haha, he was a great guy. And a great dad, really.”

Picking up the knife, he slid it across the sharpening stone slowly. “He taught me everything I know about this,” he swept out an arm, indicating the counter, the shop, and everything else that was included in ‘this’.

“Sounds like he was a great dad,” Gokudera said, and there was something in his voice that made Yamamoto think he might be _envious_. The thought was just so strange that it made him laugh out loud.

“Yea, he really was.”

Gokudera inhaled a mouthful of smoke and let it waft out of the corners of his mouth, pale blue and smelling strongly of tobacco. There was something purely dangerous about the way he moved, Yamamoto noticed. A certain graceful roughness, like a wild animal that was forcefully tamed but who still had a mouthful of fangs and a tendency to bite. Or perhaps not _just_ bite.

Yamamoto could see this man blowing up when he was angry. There was a quality to him that reminded Yamamoto of a ticking bomb with its timers hidden. He most likely had an _explosive_ temper.

The thought made his lips twitch, and he laughed quietly to himself.

“So he must have been one of those lucky bastards who managed to die in his sleep, huh?” Gokudera continued, tapping his cigarette to get rid of the accumulated ash.

Yamamoto took a moment – just a moment – to remember who ‘he’ was. Then he shook his head, lips straight as a line as he toyed with the sushi knife he was still sharpening.

“No,” now there was suddenly no trace of mirth in his voice, only a hard light in those amber-brown eyes. The slight upward curve of his lips reflected only bitterness.

“He was murdered.”

A long pause. Ash fell from Gokudera’s cigarette to the countertop.

“Ah,” he said finally, obviously flustered no matter how much he tried to remain completely impassive and bored. He took a deep drag, exhaling smoke as if he was he trying to find the right words to say from inside it.

“Ah, fuck, I’m-” the last word seemed to be caught in his throat.

“It’s okay, haha,” Yamamoto laughed again, a little high, a little false. “They caught the ones who did it, so it’s okay. It really is.” He smiled, “Hibari-san helped a lot.”

Hibari Kyouya, the Chief of the Namimori Police Force, an also the leader of the top (only) yakuza syndicate in Namimori. He was inarguably the most powerful man in the entire town.

Yamamoto put the knife back into the drawer, and wiped his hands dry.

“Ah. Oh, that’s-” Gokudera grinded the last bits of the cigarette against the ashtray, refusing to meet Yamamoto’s eyes. “That’s good then,” he finished lamely.

Yamamoto only smiled, picking up his own cup of tea and draining it. “Yea. It is.”

***

The last time Yamamoto saw Gokudera, he smelt of gunpowder and fire.

It was late evening, fifteen minutes before closing time. The shop was empty and Yamamoto was already starting to pack up when he heard the bell chime again. He turned around.

Gokudera was leaning against the doorframe with one shoulder, arms crossed and eyes downcast. The odour of gunpowder reached Yamamoto’s nose quickly, but he didn’t comment on it. He simply smiled, a little wry.

 _Explosive._ It seemed that he was right.

“Come in,” he raised his voice, cheerful as always. He waved in invitation.

Gokudera walked in, still dressed impeccably in his suit even though his hair was a little flyaway, as if he had combed it rapidly with only his fingers before coming in. He lifted his green eyes to look at Yamamoto, and there was a nearly uncertain look in them before he blinked, nodding curtly.

“Hey.”

Yamamoto dropped himself into the seat beside Gokudera, watching as the other man started smoking again.

“You smoke a lot, haha,” he leaned back against the countertop, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling.

He only received a noncommittal grunt in reply.

So Gokudera didn’t want to talk. Yamamoto hopped down from his chair and moved to stand behind the counter again.

He poured the tea, and placed it by Gokudera’s elbow. As always.

Gokudera glanced at it, but he didn’t move, simply continuing to smoke his cigarette.

“You came really late this time, haha,” Yamamoto said, smiling slightly. It didn’t matter at all to him that Gokudera didn’t answer and wasn’t planning to answer; he knew he was listening from the weight of those green eyes on him, and that was enough for him to continue talking. “Usually at this time everyone’s already home, because that’s when the patrols come out.”

Yamamoto hummed tonelessly under his breath, scratching his head lightly. “Well, today’s been a slow day, haha. But most days are like that, so I guess that’s fine too.” He leaned forward, elbows against the counter and a small smile on his lips as he watched Gokudera polish off one cigarette and start on another.

The smell of gunpowder was starting to be replaced by that of burnt tobacco.

Yamamoto continued, “There was one time when Hibari-san came in, haha. His men booked the whole shop for the night but he was the only one who actually ate, or even enter the shop, really!” Yamamoto tapped a finger against his lips, “He didn’t say a thing, though.” A pause, and then he laughed a little, as if what he was going to say next amused him greatly. “Hey Gokudera, do you know, Hibari-san used to be my schoolmate-”

“Yamamoto,” Gokudera said all of the sudden, pressing his cigarette down against the ashtray that Yamamoto was starting to think as ‘his’. It was the first time he had used Yamamoto’s name.

The man fell silent, eyes serious but he was still smiling somehow. “Yea?”

Gokudera opened his mouth as if to say something, but he only shook his head, turning away. Standing up, he looked around and picked up the cup of green tea.

And he drained it in one gulp.

Yamamoto didn’t even blink; his smile widened instead.

Gokudera looked at him before heading towards the door, back straight and arms stiff at his side. When he was at the door, he stopped, and didn’t turn around. There was a moment of silence before a soft, “Thanks,” rang out in the shop.

The bell chimed, and Gokudera was gone, leaving the cloth hanging over the entrance fluttering in the wind.

And Yamamoto knew that he would never see him again.

***

The next day:

 **SAWADA FAMILY VICTIMS OF ARSON**

 __

March 31st, 20XX

Yesterday at 9pm, the Sawada family home was found to be on fire. Moments before the fire was discovered, a loud boom was heard across the neighbourhood.

 _Firefighters had rushed to the scene, and the fire was put out by 9:35pm, but by then it was already too late. The police recovered the intact bodies of Sawada Iemitsu, Sawada Nana, and Sawada Tsunayoshi from the ruins of the house fifteen minutes later._

 _There were traces of gunpowder found on both the bodies and the house._

 _The police are currently investigating the situation. Anyone with any information about the situation is strongly urged to report to the police station and surrender your information immediately._

***

 _“What took you so long to just take out a small pest?”_

 _“Something cropped up. My apologies. It is already settled now.”_

 _“Hurry the fuck up and fly back then, trash. Don’t think this is all you’ve got to do.”_

 _“Of course..._

 _“Tenth.”_

 _End_


End file.
